Author's Note: Well, here we have it, folks, my first-ever Batman Begins fic. As you can very well tell, I'm pretty new to the fandom, so if you've got any suggestions or concrit for me, I'll be extremely grateful! I've never tried writing Bruce Wayne before, and I don't see him as a necessarily monogomous character, so the thought of doing a romance fic involving him seemed like a fun challenge. So here we go.

Disclaimer: I do not own or claim to own the characters from the DC Comics franchise, Batman. The interpretation of these characters, also, is based on the vision of Christopher Nolan and his cast, as illustrated in Batman Begins and The Dark Knight.

Night

Part I: Long Cool Woman

platinum.

She scratched her nose with her long, acrylic nails, studying herself carefully in the mirror. Her brow furrowed, and she rubbed the last traces of white powder from her nostril, glancing nonchalantly at the other women crowded in the restroom. She caught the eye of a skank with a tacky dye-job and a bad fake tan, and her paranoia lessened considerably. She didn't look anywhere near as wasted as that woman...but just to be certain, she looked her reflection in the eye again. The corner of her mouth turned in a smirk.

Sal better be here tonight; the asshole underboss she'd given a handjob had said he was "a hundred and ten percent" certain the crime lord would make an appearance, and she was determined to find him. When he'd thrown her out of her apartment a week ago, she'd looked like hell: pale and shaking with nausea, her hair a mess. She couldn't exactly blame him for trading up to a new goomarah; she'd gotten sloppy.

She didn't look sloppy tonight. One glance at her legs in these heels and Sal Maroni would be renting her a bigger, better apartment--she was sure of it. And even if he wasn't trying to win her back on sight...well, she knew the right ways to go about charming Sal...

"Where'd you get your dress?" the skank was talking to her, now. Without glancing away from her own reflection, she tossed her golden curls over her shoulder and answered blandly:

"I don't remember."

Which, at this point, was not entirely untrue. She knew Sal had given it to her a couple weeks ago, and that it would have been expensive if not for his connections. He'd said the designer would be a big deal in the next four months; she had to take his word on that. She turned to leave, pushing through the crowd of Barbie doll women to the door.

The blaring music and pulsing lights immediately assaulted her cocaine-heightened senses. She took a deep breath and blinked hard, trying to get a tighter grip on reality. Everything was too sharp, too clear; something in the back of her mind very strongly regretted doing that extra line. She ran her tongue over her lips and attempted to focus. The bar was to her right. The bar's to the right, the bar's to your right, to the right--

She straightened her back and strode towards the bar as if she was on the catwalk. Her dark eyes locked with the bartender's long before she reached the mess of people ordering drinks; his dorky smile and awkward hands said he hadn't been laid in a while. She slipped to the front of the bar with relative easiness: she'd barely eaten since she'd lost the apartment, and her svelt form was looking even slimmer than usual.

"Hey there."

The bartender's brow furrowed, and he leaned closer, asking her to repeat herself.

"I said hi," she told him, slouching against the bar to give him a better view down her diving neckline. He tried to keep his eyes up and swallowed.

"What can I get you?"

She looked him over as if she was genuinely interested. "Sal Maroni. Is he in here?"

The bartender's shoulders jerked a shrug. "Jeeze, I don't know. He'd be up in the VIP lounge if he was--"

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Yeah, I know that, but have they sent any drinks up? Has he ordered anything?"

"Look, I don't--"

He stopped mid-sentence, his attention instantly pulled away to something considerably more important. She frowned and followed his eyes, noticing the man leaning nonchalantly beside her. Her breath caught, too.

"M-Mr. Wayne. What can I do for you? Is there a problem?" The bartender's voice hiked two octaves as he struggled to maintain his cool.

The billionaire glanced at her and winked before looking back at the nervous man in front of him. "The problem is you've got a waitress with a twisted ankle upstairs and no sign of your manager. You mind getting a hold of him for me?"

The bartender bobbled his head a few times before skittering off, much to the noisy displeasure of his waiting customers. Bruce Wayne's brow furrowed, and he muttered to no one in particular:

"I was thinking he could just page him or something..."

She laughed quietly, just so that he knew she was listening to him. Her met her eyes again and smiled.

"I'm Bruce Wayne."

She smirked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I know."

He looked better than his prints in the paper; his smile seemed more suave. Her heart quickened with the inkling of this new prospect: Bruce Wayne was considerably wealthier than Sal--and it was common knowledge that seducing the playboy was no difficult task. Bruce Wayne went through women faster than he went through Armani suits...but so had Sal Maroni, before he met her.

She ran her tongue over her lips as he offered her his hand.

"Do you have a name?"

She gripped his hand lightly, flashing a flirtacious smile. "Jessica Sinclair."

"Well." His gaze slid approvingly down her body before returning shamelessly back to her gaze. "Have you ever been to the VIP lounge here?"

"A couple times," she said.

His eyebrows rose for a moment, and his hand tightened on hers. "Alright. Then let's go somewhere else."

Jessica let him lead her away from the bar, watching his smug face with an amused feeling of accomplishment. Everyone knew Bruce Wayne could have any woman he wanted--and usually did. But she wasn't about to be another one of his inumerable easy nights--the Wayne trust fund was much too large for that.